I take a breath. It’s deep, jagged, and entirely my own.
I am Harley Matthews. I am broke, I am single, and I am wearing a dress that cost more than my car. But as I walk toward the gravel driveway where my father’s truck is waiting, I have never felt lighter.
I’ve finally found the exit. And this time, I’m the one holding the keys.
Chapter 17
Skyler
My watch is heavy. It’s a Patek Philippe—an heirloom from my grandfather that cost more than Harley’s college education, and right now, it feels like a manacle. It ticks against my pulse, a relentless, mechanical reminder that I’m on a schedule. 3:04 p.m. Four minutes late. In the world of Thompson, being late is a structural failure.
I stand at the altar, my feet planted on a red carpet that wasn’t supposed to be here. My tuxedo is a masterpiece of wool and silk, tailored so tightly to my frame that every breath requires a conscious effort. I look out at the sea of faces, and I don’t see friends. I see the Thompson Foundation board, I see the Hendersons, I see the silent partners and the loud creditors. I see three hundred people who are here to witness a merger, not a marriage.
The air in the ballroom is a chilled, sterile vacuum. It smells like a funeral. My mother’s lilies are everywhere—white, waxy calla lilies erupting from silver urns like silent screams. Not a single burgundy peony in sight. No burnt orange velvet. No cedar boxes from Jake’s workshop. I’d seen the dumpsters earlier behind the pool house, overflowing with Harley’s dreams, but I’d turned away. I’d told myself that peace was a more valuable commodity than aesthetics.
Management is about mitigation—that’s what I tell myself as the sweat starts to bead at my hairline, threatening to ruin the $200 styling job. I’m mitigating the damage to my parents’ ego. I’m mitigating the risk of a social scandal.
I look at the front row.
My mother sits like a queen who has just finished a successful conquest. She’s wearing silver silk that catches the light like a blade. Her smile is fixed, a masterpiece of Botox and triumph. Beside her, Robert is a limestone statue, his arms crossed, his gaze appraising the room to ensure the ROI on this event is sufficient.
And then there’s Amanda.
She sits directly behind my parents, a flash of pale blue in a room designed by her own sensibilities. She isn’t looking at the lilies; she’s looking at me. Her smile is small, knowing, and absolutely lethal. It says, I told you the house always wins. It says, Look at you, Skyler, back in the cage, trying to convince yourself you like the view.
My heart is a drum in my ears. Thump. Thump. Thump. It’s a messy, organic sound that doesn’t belong in a room this polished. I feel the knot in my stomach tighten, a visceral reaction to the lie I’m currently inhabiting. I think of the gift card I gave her, the Bergdorf bag that sat in my pocket like a bribe. I think of the grant for her clients. I bought her silence, or so Ithought. I navigated her into the country club like I was steering a difficult client toward a compromise they didn’t really want.
The doors at the back of the hall are still closed. Every second they stay shut is a second I spend imagining her running. I imagine her back at that ranch house, eating lasagna with her hands, laughing with a man who knows how to build things that don’t need silver leaf to look valuable.
The fear is a cold, oily slick in my gut.
What if she doesn’t show? What if the “reckoning” she threatened happens outside these doors?
Then, the orchestra begins.
The sound is massive, a wall of brass and strings that demands attention. The double doors swing open.
My chest floods with a relief so intense I nearly stumble. She’s here.
Harley stands in the doorway, a vision in white silk that seems to glow against the dark mahogany of the entrance. From this distance, she looks perfect. She looks like the woman I’ve been trying to force her to be for months. The guests rise as one, a coordinated wave of designer fabric.
She starts the walk.
I search her face as she approaches. I’m looking for the fire I saw at the ranch. I’m looking for the anger, the tears, the “World’s Most Adequate Social Worker” who challenged me in the kitchen.
I find none of it.
Harley’s face is a mask of marble. Her eyes are fixed on the altar, but they don’t seem to see the silver urns or the lilies or the guests. She looks detached, as if she’s watching a film she’s already seen and didn’t particularly like.
Wedding nerves, I tell myself. The coward’s specialty: reinterpreting reality until it stops hurting. She’s justoverwhelmed by the scale, but she’ll thank me later. Once the honeymoon starts, she’ll see that I saved the day.
As she nears the dais, the distance between us shrinks, but the coldness radiating from her expands. She reaches the steps.
I step forward, extending my hand.
When she finally looks at me, the relief in my chest turns to lead. Her blue eyes, usually so vibrant and warm, are as hard as sapphires. There is no forgiveness there. No peace. There is only a terrifying, crystalline determination that makes my smile falter.
I take her hands. They are ice cold. They feel like the hands of a stranger I’m trying to negotiate with across a boardroom table.
